


I Was So Blind

by lmnerdlocked0316



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmnerdlocked0316/pseuds/lmnerdlocked0316
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is in a relationship with his sexuality and it's complicated. How long can he tell himself his feelings for Sherlock are just platonic?</p><p>Stole the title from Hannibal's Mizumono. No worries though, no boyfriend-stabbings will occur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 221B Baker Street

John Watson had a complicated relationship with his sexuality.

He loved women. Really and truly, he did. They were soft and beautiful and a masterpiece to look at. They were more comfortable with their own emotions than most men he knew, intuitive and unafraid of themselves. He loved men, too. Well, not really. Only one man, once and that never amounted to anything so how could he actually be anything other than straight? Besides, maybe he had loved Sholto but he had been young and Sholto was his leading officer. Of course he had feelings for him. It's not like he wanted to--no. None of that.

Plus, he didn't want to be any more like Harry than he could help.

He was comfortable with who he was now, as he should be at nearly 40 years old. Women seemed to like him, so he liked them back.

He ignored the men.

Until he couldn't.

***

Life as a civilian, after so long as a soldier, is not an easy adjustment. Medically, John knew this.

Personally, he sat in his dingy bedsit with his gun in his lap. It weighed more than he remembered.

_One more walk and then I'll go._

Ever the soldier, he grabbed his cane and marched out the door to see what he wouldn't miss when he was gone.

"John!" Knuckles gripped tighter on his cane as he walked. "John Watson! John!" Whatever he was, he was a kind one; even when he didn't want to be. Plastering on a grin that looked more like a grimace, he turned and faced Mike Stamford who was clumsily making his way towards him.

"Heard you went and got yourself shot at!" Mike had never been very good at subtleties. John flinched involuntarily at the memory and pulled a sharp breath in through his nose to focus.

_London, St. Bart's, Mike Stamford. No guns, breathe_.

"Yeah," he managed feebly, "and I got shot."

Mike pulled a horrified expression, "Oh no," his horror shifted towards disgust, "they've put you up in one of those terrible pension flats haven't they?!"

For the first time in God knows how long, John smiled. "Yeah they did. Can't afford anything else."

Mischief slipped in behind Mike's eyes, "Get a flatshare!"

John had brief imaginings of some poor London-er, lying awake at night listening as PTSD took the form of nightmares and kept everyone except the sufferer awake.

"No. No one would want me as a flat mate." It was not disparaging, it was simply the truth. The mischief sparked brighter. "Just take a walk with me."

***

_Tits,_ John thought, _think about tits. We love those, remember? Not tall, lanky blokes with creamy skin that we just want to--nope. None of that._ Sherlock Holmes smirked back at him, dark curls tousled and silver eyes gleaming.

"2-2-1 B Baker Street. I'll be there at half past 7." He whirled through the door but stopped before it swung shut, "Oh, and the name is Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

_He bloody_ winked _at me_.

John started open-mouthed at the swinging lab door. Mike Stamford tried unsuccessfully to hide his laughter.

"Yes, John, he is always like that."

How John Watson found himself at the door of 221 Baker Street was beyond him. He should have eaten his gun by now, to be rid of all this madness and finally have some peace.

The thought of peace made him inexplicably itchy.

The landlady, who was apparently named "Mrs.Hudsondearieohgoodnesshowlonghaveyoubeenstandingouthere?!" dragged him into the foyer and up the stairs into quite a nice flat that he was certain he would never afford even a quarter of. He opened his mouth to say as much, when Sherlock Holmes materialized in the living room.

John ignored the way his throat went dry and scolded his heart for beating so fast. "Mr. Holmes, I--"

"Sherlock, please. Mrs. Hudson has agreed to quite a reasonable rate for this flat. If we split it, your pension will easily cover your half. It's an excellent location, there are several GPs within walking distance for you to find work should you so choose, and the Tube station is just there," Sherlock gestured vaguely out one of the large windows and continued, "I've already moved my things in and taken the bedroom down the hall. There is another bedroom upstairs that you should find quite accommodating." He finally paused for breath and John knew he had to say something.

"Well, let me just have a look at the lease then and--" John was quite surprised to hear those words leaving his mouth,  _am I really agreeing to a flat share with a madman I don't even know, for some exorbitant amount of money that I don't have?!_ , and Mrs. Hudson clapped joyously as she fluttered downstairs to fetch the paperwork.

"Suspicious" was not the right word for what he felt when he saw the numbers on the lease. Sherlock smirked over the tea that Mrs. Hudson had left (with the admonishment that she was not their housekeeper!), reading John's face easily. "I cleared up a bit of trouble for dear Mrs. Hudson several years ago. Her husband was sentenced to execution in Florida."

John's eyebrows rose, "Oh, how did you get him out of it?"

Sherlock's smirk changed into an outright grin, "Oh no, Dr. Watson. I didn't get him out of the sentence. I ensured its completion."

John Watson did not know what to say to that.

"Care for a bite? I know a place not far from here."

Unable to remember the last time he ate, John nodded. It seemed he would be sticking around for awhile anyway.

***

Sherlock Holmes did _not_ do things to _impress_ people. He did not care what people thought of him. He simply observed and if people were impressed then bless their little goldfish brains. John Watson was no different.

Except that he was.

Sherlock fully expected to be punched in the face during that first encounter in the lab, at Bart's. He was doing quite well, until the "you've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist" bit. There had been anger in John Watson's stormy blue eyes at that moment. But also...

"How did you know all that stuff?"

The question pulled him from his reverie, "Hm?"

John looked at him, brow furrowed in concentration, "That stuff, in the lab. Afghanistan or Iraq? How did you know?"

_He wants to know? They never want to know. They just want me to shut up._ Sherlock Holmes took another long, observant look at John Watson, and explained what he had observed.

"That's...that's brilliant." The statement was solid, no hint of doubt. No hint of anger. Sherlock turned his head slowly, stuffing any trace of unexpected shock back into his throat. John stared at him, mouth open and eyes wide. "That was _amazing_."

For the first time since Redbeard, Sherlock Holmes wanted to cry.

"People...don't usually react that way." He managed to sound indifferent. Good.

"How do they usually react?" John had closed his mouth now and his lips were twitching in a way that suggested he knew the answer. Sherlock found himself smiling back, so he turned away.

"They usually tell me to piss off."

John burst into laughter and it was impossible not to join him. He laughed like someone who missed doing it, and suddenly Sherlock observed a good deal more about John Watson.

The war had left him with more than a wounded shoulder and a limp.

***

 


	2. Trust Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good thing melodrama doesn't run in the family...

 

 

Given that he had just moved in with a strange man who deduced his entire life history in two minutes, a man whom that bloody ignorant policewoman had called "Freak", John shouldn't be surprised that he was bundled into a nondescript black sedan and hauled off to the nearest abandoned aircraft hangar on his second day at 221B. 

 

He should have been frightened.

 

He shouldn't have agreed to get in the car. 

 

He should have called the police.

 

These things never even crossed his mind as he sat on the posh leather seats next to a beautiful doe-eyed brunette who was glued to her mobile. 

 

"So, do you--"

 

The woman flicked her eyes to him for the first time and quirked a smile, "No."

 

_Well so much for that._

He abandoned the pick-up attempt and spent the rest of the ride in silence. Vaguely he realized that he was unarmed, but the thought didn't trouble him. 

 

It troubled him even less when he saw the man waiting for him. Ginger hair, slight paunch, a bloody _umbrella,_ and a three-piece suit that certainly did not look appropriate for bloodshed. The man's eyes were what truly convinced John that he was in no danger; they were light green, highly intelligent, and though there was the spark of a threat it was not the murderous kind. 

 

"You know," he began conversationally, "there are these things called _mobiles._  I believe your secretary is rather infatuated with hers. You could have simply _called_ me, instead of melodramatically dragging me to your lair." John pulled Harry's old phone from his pocket to demonstrate.

 

The green-eyed man smiled humorlessly, "That leg must be hurting you Dr. Watson. Do sit down." He gestures to a rather uncomfortable-looking chair opposite him.

 

"I'd rather not." John tried not to grind his teeth at the insinuation directed at his cane. The humorless smile faded.

 

"You don't seem very afraid." 

 

John couldn't stop the derisive snort, "You don't seem very frightening."

 

Thin lips tightened into a frown.

 

"Ah yes of course, the bravery of a soldier. I've found that bravery is often the kindest word for _stupidity,_ don't you agree?" Mr. Posh Umbrella did not wait for a response, but continued, "What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?" He sensed this was the real reason for the theatrics, and John again fought the urge to laugh.

 

"I don't _have_ a connection. I just met him!"

 

Umbrella Man smiled insipidly, "Yes, you just met him. And yet, you have moved in with him and now you are solving crimes together! Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

 

_How does he know all this?_

"Who exactly are you?"

 

"An interested party. For information on Sherlock Holmes, I would be willing to pay--"

 

John's mobile pinged:

 

_Baker Street._

_Come at once_

_if convenient._

_SH_

He smiled at the signature, having never met someone who felt the need to sign their text messages. 

 

"I do hope I'm not distracting you." Umbrella Man's tone suggested that he very much _did_ hope he was distracting him.

 

John played with his phone a bit more, just for effect. 

 

"Nope. Not distracting me at all."

 

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

 

It was John's turn for a grin that lacked any trace of humor, "That's _really_ none of your business."

 

Umbrella looked briefly surprised and then lowered his voice ominously, "Oh, it _could_ be."

 

_If inconvenient,_

_come anyway._

_SH_

John turned to leave, finished with whatever this man was trying to offer him.

 

"Trust issues," Umbrella called out after him, "that's what is says here."

 

John spun, " _What did you say?"_

Umbrella looked in his little black notebook and raised an eyebrow, "It says you have 'trust issues.' Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes?"

 

He clenched his jaw and straightened, "Are we done here?"

 

Umbrella smiled, pleased that he finally struck a nerve, "Show me your left hand, Doctor Watson."

 

John clenched his jaw impossibly tighter.

 

"Show me." Umbrella Man spoke in a way that indicated his orders are usually obeyed. Already several steps away, John lifted his left hand.

 

He didn't make any move to come closer.

 

Umbrella frowned but crossed the room, "Remarkable," he said upon inspecting the proffered hand, "your therapist thinks the intermittent tremor in this hand is some form of post traumatic stress. Fire her. You're under stress right now and you're perfectly calm."

 

John leveled a glare at Umbrella that made him take a step back, but he continued to speak.

 

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson," he smirks, "you _miss_ it."

 

John barely held back the impulse to chin the bloody pompous git in front of him. He channeled his energy instead into turning abruptly and walking away.

 

His phone chimed again:

 

_Could be dangerous._

_SH_

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." The man called after him. 

 

The brunette was waiting for him in the lot, "I'm to take you home," She was still on her mobile, "address?"

 

John found that he was unable to be rude to her, "Erm, yeah. Baker Street. 221B Baker Street."

**Author's Note:**

> This is only my second fic. Full disclosure: as a woman I felt rather wrong about writing a Johnlock fic because I am not a gay man. I *am* bisexual, however, so I feel I understand one John "Not Gay" Watson a little better. Please let me know if I'm being misrepresentative or insensitive! Comments are appreciated!
> 
> <3


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